


By Any Other Name

by thirtypercent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slash Goggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years before Sherlock met John, he got clean. But he didn’t do it alone.</p>
<p>
  <i>Words crowd into Sherlock’s mind, but only a few escape. “You’re a fool.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“So I’ve been told, once or twice.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [G is for...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383481) by [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337). 



> This is a remix of Kestrel337's "G is for...", written for Sherlock Remix (fall 2015). Thanks Kestrel for the inspiration! ^_^ 
> 
> It's meant to be compatible with a future Sherlock/Lestrade or Sherlock/John/Lestrade worldview, but as it stands it's closer to gen.

***

 

Sherlock’s hands shake so hard he twice fails to light his cigarette. He curses, and finally the tobacco glows red on the third try. He needs to settle his stomach, and if his sermonizing brother won’t allow him opiates, well. He may as well kill himself more slowly. 

He takes a long drag, and leans back against the window frame, closing his eyes. His heartbeat slows, just a hair. He lets his breath out slowly, the smoke blending with the steam of his breath in the crisp November air.

An insistent _buzz_ from the side table breaks into his thoughts. Call number nine in the last three hours. He opens his eyes on a growl.

He takes another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for one, two, three beats before swiping the phone off the table, pressing “send,” and blowing smoke into the receiver. “Brother dear!”

“A bit childish, don’t you think?” Mycroft’s syllables have grown even more clipped since his new government appointment. Sherlock supposes an even larger stick up his arse is part of the generous sign-on service the Crown provides. 

“I’m not the one locking away errant siblings in filthy bedsits. Auditioning for the role of fairy tale villain?”

“Please, it’s hardly a bedsit. And if it’s filthy, that’s your own doing.”

“And bringing in minders for me, like a child? From Scotland Yard. Where I consult. On _criminal_ cases.”

“Come now, Sherlock. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. The sergeant is simply aware of your particular... idiosyncrasies.” 

“And on the crown’s payroll,” he spits. “All the better. The well-oiled government machine in action.”

A long pause reveals the clink of ice cubes in Mycroft’s drink.

“She wouldn’t want this for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers clench over molded plastic. “Shut up.”

“She wasn’t just _your_ grandmother. She had faith in you. You may find going out in a blaze of self-destruction poetic, but she wouldn’t. Not really a fan of Keats’ work, as I recall.”

“You don’t know what she wanted. And I don’t have to stay here.”

“No, but you will.” 

Sherlock’s teeth grate. “Don’t patronize me, you overgrown twat. And if I see any of your goons lurking on the street, I’ll piss on their heads.”

Sherlock slams the clamshell shut before Mycroft can reply, but condescension seems to emanate from the damned device anyway. His breath comes in ragged gulps, and he wrenches the two halves apart, twisting and bending the plastic until it snaps. His fingers scrabble and tear at plastic and metal until the phone’s battery, SIM card, and outer wreckage are strewn across the floor. 

A wave of nausea threatens to evacuate the nonexistent lunch from his stomach, and he hangs over the windowsill, panting. His cigarette has been lost to the pavement below, but the chill breeze is strong enough to lift even his sweat-sodden hair from his brow. He focuses on his broken, bleeding fingernails, and nearly laughs, even as his stomach curdles. It seems suggesting he’d vomit on Mycroft’s goons would have been a more credible threat.

The jingle of keys barely precedes the click of the lock and swing of the door, and Sherlock doesn’t have to turn around to know one confused Scotland Yard detective is staring at him, mouth agape.

“What’s going on here, then?”

Sherlock closes his eyes on a groan. “And they call you a detective.”

Lestrade crosses the room with long, measured strides. Sherlock anticipates a lecture, but doesn’t expect the hand on his shoulder. Sherlock jerks back, arms flailing. His elbow connects with the ridge of Lestrade’s cheekbone, and Lestrade reels back, hand flying to his face. “What the hell was that for? And what did you do to your bloody phone?”

Sherlock leans back against the windowsill, heart racing. He glances at the wreckage of his phone, only recently a top-of-the-line Motorola Razr. A gift from Mycroft. His mouth twists. “Surveillance. You can never be too careful.”

“Is that what you’re doing out the window, then? Looking for spies?”

“CCTV is everywhere in this city. You should know.” Sherlock slides to the floor on shaky knees. He swallows. “Back already? Mycroft use his dog whistle again?”

“Just here to help.” Lestrade’s voice is mild. 

Sherlock’s jaw clenches. “Please. The _schadenfreude_ is too good. Not so smart now, am I? Half of Scotland Yard would pay good money for a photo of this little tableau.”

“Well, it’s a shame I don’t have one of those fancy camera phones, then.” Sherlock finally looks up. The puppy-dog warmth in Lestrade’s eyes sets his blood boiling, and abruptly he wants to do more than bruise.

He tilts his head back, and props his arms on his bent knees. His gaze slides down Lestrade’s body, then flicks back up to meet his eyes. He unleashes his best public school drawl. “Or are you hoping I’ll suck your cock? You’ve been hard-up lately. That condom in your wallet expired ages ago. And desperate addicts tend to be easy marks.”

Lestrade barely blinks. He crosses his arms. “Even I’m not that hard-up.”

“Are you sure? What are you, forty-three? No, forty-two. But that gray is already taking over. Give it a few years, and the only ones who will give you a second glance will be pensioners, or the odd girl with a daddy complex.” 

Lestrade lets his arms fall to his sides, and grins. “This is a cute game we’re playing, but I’m not leaving. Best get used to it.” He turns and strolls to the kitchen. “Tea?”

Sherlock hisses.

Lestrade clicks on the kettle and tosses over his shoulder, “Besides, I can’t leave you to your own devices yet, not if your brain’s so bent out of shape you can’t _deduce_ my name.”

Sherlock sets his jaw, and doesn’t say a word. Lestrade returns with two mugs, placing one on the windowsill near Sherlock’s head. 

Lestrade settles down in an armchair, propping his tea on the arm and an ankle over his knee. He slumps back, closing his eyes.

Words crowd into Sherlock’s mind, but only a few escape. “You’re a fool.”

“So I’ve been told, once or twice.”

Sherlock studies Lestrade’s profile through narrowed eyes. A forty-two year old cop with a white-knight streak a mile wide, a history of dysfunctional relationships, an absentee father, and a mother who was likely gestating just as Gregory Peck graced the silver screen in _To Kill a Mockingbird_.

“Greg” might as well be tattooed on his forehead, for god’s sake. Blokey enough to fit in with the rugby crowd, posh enough to come over trustworthy in the courtroom. Just like his suits: cheap, but clean, in sober colors. The perpendicular lines do lend an inexplicable authority in the minds of the public, though. Sherlock frowns, tugging at the hem of his own worn t-shirt.

Finally he settles back against the wall, and closes his own eyes. He sighs. “Gus, short for Gustave. Goes with the French surname.”

Lestrade’s foot hits the floor with a thud. “You think I look like a _Gus_?”

Sherlock shrugs, eyes still closed. His mouth nearly quirks. “No? Guess I’ll have to keep trying.”

 

***


End file.
